


Per Aspera

by sedfierisentio



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst and Humour, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Daddy Kink, Drunk Sex, Frequent and Unabashed Use of Religious Imagery During BDSM Sex, Gender Identity, Harry is a competitive bastard and so is Louis, Jamaica, Light BDSM, Light breath play, London, M/M, My childhood priest sure would be proud, No deaths are ever mentioned in the fic, Spanking, allusions to mental health struggles, and lots lots lots lots of food, character study I guess????, everyone's getting dicked in this, modena, mostly a lot of tasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sedfierisentio/pseuds/sedfierisentio
Summary: Canon compliant. Time stamps set between 2016 and 2019, tied together by one single theme: taste.Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything for long minutes. Then, still looking away, just a random, indefinite spot on the floor, he whispers, “I like all moments with you, even the nasty ones.” He inhales deeply and adds, voice thin like paper, light as a feather. “I know your bad taste. I know your bitterness and your hurt. I know everything. I love you still, and I can swallow that down.”  He turns around to look at him, reaches out, fixes his soft fringe. “Thank you for swallowing mine.”Louis’s throat feels tight, his heart like a hammer in his chest. You know my rot, he thinks, and I know yours. I love you still.(Aspro: in Italian, sour, sharp, pungent; fig. harsh. From the Latin word asper, meaning rough, coarse, pungent and, figuratively, adverse.)No deaths are mentioned in the fic.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 35
Kudos: 232





	Per Aspera

**Author's Note:**

> My biggest thanks to Hima, who beta'd the first bit of this and is going to wake up to his mess. Not her fault, if there's any typos, it's all on me. I'll swap the text later, if that's the case.

_Aspro: in Italian, sour, sharp, pungent; fig. harsh. From the Latin word_ asper _, meaning rough, coarse, pungent and, figuratively, adverse._

The kitchen is spacious, airy, with Carrara marble running across its countertops and its isle, to decorate the white wooden furniture. During the day, it smells like coffee, or curry, sometimes pancakes and cake. It’s smelled like smoke before, even, mostly due to him, the smell lingering for days, over anything else, over turkey and peanut butter on toast and tomato soup. Right now, at 3.47am, it doesn’t smell like anything, but he would even have the charred stink of burnt dinner, of chicken left in the oven for way too long, over nothing at all.

He can’t sleep. It’s not unusual, per se, he’s a bit of a nocturnal animal anyway, but right now the jet-lag is killing him and all he can do is watch Netflix and wish he was dead asleep instead. His earbuds are plugged in, so he sees Harry before he can hear him, leaning against the door, semi-hidden in the darkness, naked torso and bathrobe and dreamlike, as he always is. He takes one of his earbuds out.

Harry shifts, perhaps uncomfortably. “Hey,” he says. “Do you wanna come to bed?”

It’s a peace offering of sorts, he guesses. He knows Harry’s still angry—knows it in the hard line of his jaw, in the jittery movements of his legs, in the way his fingers tap against his own thigh, agitated, restless—and yet he’s extending a hand, an olive branch, as he does when he thinks he’s right and can’t bring himself to say _I’m sorry_. 

“I can’t sleep,” Louis says. “I’d just keep on turning. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Harry says, and it feels like a bite. “Should I…” he hesitates. “Shall I make us tea? An infusion or something. Chamomile?”

Louis is well aware of the shallow sound of his own breaths. “I… yes. Yes, please.”

Ten minutes later, the room smells like chamomile. Louis hates its taste, finds it nauseating, but appreciates its effects, and sips slowly, burning his tongue. The mild, dull pain is welcoming, in a way: insomnia has a way of detaching you from everything, reality included. 

Harry’s sitting on the other side of the table, hands cupping the ceramic, nail polish days old and chipped. He didn’t turn the lights on and moonlight paints his face white and silver, as if it was always meant to be watched at night. Perhaps it was. 

“What’re you watching?” he asks, head nodding towards Louis’s laptop.

“Wild, Wild Country,” Louis says, without thinking.

“Oh,” Harry says after a second. It’s nothing more than a whisper. “I thought—we were supposed to watch it together. We said—we decided, a couple of weeks ago.”

 _Fuck._ Louis runs a hand through his hair, inhaling deeply. “Sorry, Haz, I’m—Sorry. I forgot.”

Harry says, “I guess you did.”

It doesn’t feel like a bite. It feels like a stab wound—a self-inflicted one. “I’m sorry,” Louis says again. “I’m just barely one episode in. I can rewatch it with you tomorrow.”

Harry leans back, taps his fingers against the wooden table. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbles, slow, dragging. “I’m—I’m going back to bed.” He stands, chair dragging loudly against the floor. His bathrobe has fallen open, revealing more of his chest, of his tattoo-tattered stomach. “I’ll probably still be awake when you come in, so don’t worry about being quiet.”

His steps are barely audible, even as he walks up the stairs. Louis stays in the kitchen for a few long minutes, then shuts the laptop off and makes his way to the bedroom, where Harry, true to his word, is under the duvet but breathing way too raggedly to be asleep. 

He’s not crying, but he’s tense. Louis slips under the covers, mattress dipping under his weight, and curls around him, naked torso against his back, their feet locking together, hand resting against Harry’s stomach. Harry doesn’t quite relax, but doesn’t push him away, either. Louis, on the other hand, isn’t quite sure whether he’s walking barefoot on shattered glass, whether he shattered it himself, or if it’s a dangerous, sharp mess they both made.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” he whispers. “I really am.”

“So am I,” Harry says. One of his hands goes to grab Louis’s and squeezes softly, as if he, too, were made of glass. Or perhaps the both of them. “I’m sorry, too.” Then, mumbling: “Just so you know, in the last ten minutes alone I prepared a tirade about how you’re an asshole for watching Wild, Wild Country on your own when we were supposed to watch it together, added a good paragraph about never saying sorry when you’re wrong and being a stubborn prick, and then managed to fit in that dick move of yours from October 2013, only to talk myself through it and get my blood pressure down again.”

The change in tone is tangible. Louis props himself up, looks at Harry’s face from over his shoulder. “Sounds like an eventful ten minutes,” he says. “What did I even _do_ in October 2013?”

“Fuck knows,” Harry says, shooting him a sideways glance. He can see a small smile creeping in, pulling at the corners of Harry’s lips. “I’m sure you did something.”

Louis pokes him, affronted. “Pot, meet kettle,” he retorts, and hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “We can have makeup sex tomorrow, if you want. I guess we can find a way to incorporate your tirade.”

Despite himself, Harry snorts, a short, uncontrolled noise, hides his face in the pillow. Louis’s lips brush against his skin, leave a trail of kisses down to the muscles between his shoulder blades, then move north again to rest on Harry’s nape. He inhales deeply, body wash and shampoo. It takes both of them a while to fall asleep: in Louis’s mind, Harry’s still shouting, _Sometimes I wish I could pick your brain, because you won’t ever tell me anything. I fucking wish I could cut you open, like a pig, just so I could know what you’re hiding inside,_ and Louis had wondered: _If you did, would you bear to see my rot?_

An hour later, though, he dreams of an easier time, when things were simpler, words kinder, and kitchens were just kitchens instead of metaphors.

(If there’s something he’s learnt in the past years it’s that fights can start like electrical fires, an unexpected, deadly spark when no one’s paying attention, mere seconds to spare before a raging inferno; and that, other times, they build up like eruptions, fire and stone underground recoiling, simmering, boiling, for days, for weeks, even, one tremor at a time, before the final explosion. He hasn’t learnt how to anticipate the disaster: he knows, however, how to clean up the ashes—what to leave buried underneath the black, charred ground.)

Morning comes around with the sharp smell of coffee and a warm body shifting next to his. Louis groans and rubs the sleep from his eyes, propping himself up against the bedpost. He’s greeted with the view of Harry scribbling something, notebook balanced against his bent knee. He’s only wearing a pair of black briefs. There are two steaming cups of hot coffee on his bedside table. Not unlike yesterday, the balance seems precarious, hazardous. He’s a trapezist on a fine line between skyscrapers.

“Hey,” he drawls. “‘Morning.”

“Morning,” Harry says. “Well, technically, afternoon. It’s 2pm. I made us coffee,” he adds, gesturing towards his left. 

“I can smell that,” Louis mumbles, sitting up. He leans forward, leaving a kiss on Harry’s bare shoulder. “Thank you.”

Harry inhales, setting his pen and notebook down, and—he doesn’t jerk away but he distances himself, turns to face Louis properly, his legs crossed. Louis doesn’t dare move away, still angled to kiss his skin, and thinks, _God, please_. Harry’s ringless fingers are playing with the hem of the duvet when he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s easier than he’d thought to say, “Not particularly.” 

“Me neither,” Harry exhales. He leans forward, rests his weight on his hands, and brushes his lips against Louis’s, once, twice, like a caress. “I don’t even remember how this fight started, to be honest.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Something about October 2013?”

Harry kicks him. He actually, honest to God, kicks him, angling for the nearest part of his body. “Shut up.”

“Ouch,” Louis mumbles, massaging his thigh. He can only guess he’s lucky that Harry didn’t aim for his crotch instead. “You were the one who said that. I thought we were supposed to incorporate the tirade into the makeup sex?”

“Are we?” Harry asks, eyebrow raised. He sits up straighter, traitorous, dangerous leg now bent up, loose boxer-briefs riding up his gorgeous, muscled thigh. “Having makeup sex? Now?”

“D’ya want to check your calendar first?”

Harry doesn’t kick him again, although he looks like he might be considering it. What he does do, however, is adjust himself without any discretion and clear his throat. “I guess we are,” he finally replies. “After you brush your teeth, though. Your breath could wake the dead.”

This is familiar: the banter, the back and forth, the flirting, the foreplay, the soon-to-be-cold coffee dismissed, forgotten. Harry’s legs parting, lazy, inviting. The sheets smelling like detergent and like _them_ , a den, a refuge, with their secrets and their issues and their curses and nightmares, trapped forever between the mattress and the duvet. They do talk things through, but it’s always a tiring, risky affair; a balancing act they’re seldom ready for. 

Touching is easier, and so is kissing, biting, grabbing, and sometimes—Louis thinks a few minutes later, with a sideways glance at Harry’s discarded notepad, on the floor—writing one too many songs about it.

*

At the beginning of the hiatus, days bled and morphed into each other, an endless stream of nights and mornings and evenings and evenings and mornings, without beginning, without end. Los Angeles and London might as well have looked the same and he wouldn’t have noticed. He’d been on the run, hopping from town to town, and country to country, for so long, that when everything came to a halt, and stilled, he was the one left spinning. 

What he’s since done to ground himself is what he knows best—he’s written. Writing songs came naturally in One Direction, as a form of self-expression, of escapism, and as a way to take back some of the control he’d felt was slipping out from his fingers with each passing day. Words, he’d realised, didn’t need a voice. Words _were_ a voice by themselves, and he could finally have one. He’s learnt, only now, in the past year or so, that he’d been wrong all along—his voice had never been his and his alone, but shared with everyone else in the band and their songwriters and their composers.

He’s realised now that he doesn’t know what his own voice sounds like, who he even _is_ outside of One Direction. Party boy Louis Tomlinson, stupid Louis Tomlinson, heartbroken Louis Tomlinson, Louis the underdog, the lover, the brother, the boyfriend, the songwriter, the once-relevant boybander, and more, more, more, so much more, the real and the fake, the good and the bad, all these small, sharp pieces of him haphazardly held together by pure willpower. 

After all, if there’s one thing he doesn’t lack, it’s stubbornness. He knows that, and so does Harry; so do Liam, Niall and Zayn, and so does everyone who’s ever worked with him. Even now, the process with the songwriters and the producers he’s meeting with is stilted, dragging, painful, even, and the sales and charts seem to mock him and taunt him, like nothing’s ever good enough, and yet he refuses to accept that—that it just isn’t—and leave it all. 

_Resilient_ seems to be the new, fancy word for “a bloody pain in the arse,” or so Lottie says. People who dislike him—and he’s half proud to say that there are quite a few of them—still call him various names, including _fucking annoying_.

For instance, about ten minutes ago, at least three label executives scanned him from head to toe, clearly offended by his attire, the grey joggers and black hoodie. Apparently, his outfit makes it look like he doesn’t care about this meeting. Which is the point, really; he really, really doesn’t fucking care, but he supposes that’s lost on them. 

Right now, one of them is saying, “I wouldn’t bite the hand that feeds, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Bite the hand that feeds? Louis will fucking rip their throats out, is what he’ll do. _Fuck you_ dances on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. He’s learnt to do that, too. “That would be a no from me.”

“Well then, if that’s what you prefer,” the executive says. That’s also code for _fuck you_. “It would be easier for everyone if you stopped being so difficult.”

Difficult Louis, resentful Louis, naive Louis, Louis, Louis. He thinks, en passant, of circus animals, subdued and beaten down and broken, of elephants and lions and tigers, quieted or whimpering, and of those same animals when, one day, they finally strike back and stomp, jump, sink their teeth in. After endless minutes, he leaves the meeting and the building with nothing gained and, perhaps, something lost. 

When Daisy rings him and asks how he’s doing, and he says, _Fine, love,_ he’s Louis, the brother. That’s his piece, and this piece doesn’t allow him to say that he’s tired, that he’d like to crawl out his skin—perhaps lay it down, and look at it from the outside, as if you would with a portrait or a museum piece, for any sort of familiarity—and show his flesh as painfully naked and raw as it feels now. 

On the other side of the world, she should perhaps be in bed already, asleep, but he can’t find it in himself to parent her, berate her. He lies on the sofa, Clifford napping right beside him, and they talk for a long time. She chats about school, about boys, about homework and about Phoebe and Fizzy and Lottie and Mum, too, until she’s slurring a bit, sleepy yet stubborn, just like him.

“I love you, Lou,” she whispers then, like a secret. “You’re the best person I know.”

Is he? He’s so many people. He’s so many pieces. Brother, son, lover, singer, songwriter. He wonders, briefly, how many pieces you have to be broken into, dissected into, to start losing track of them. To forget them. To give them away. He wonders when he became a master of loss. He bites the inside of his cheek and tastes the bitter tang of blood. 

(Hell, he’s learnt, is not flames and demons; it isn’t screaming and crying and begging and blood-stained hands and the vivid, terrifying depictions of poets and artists that painters throughout the centuries. Sometimes, hell is a bedroom in Los Angeles. It’s white walls and blinding lights and sterile beds, and three hour long car drives, and missed phone calls, and intercontinental flights, and parking lots and camera flashes, and, over and over again, hell is a boardroom with pale, expressionless faces and ironed expensive black suits. 

Most of the time, though, Hell is having no control at all. Not of his life, not of his job, not of everyone else around him, not of those who stay, not of those who leave. He’s 25, and he’s realising he is losing time, day after day, the way he’s lost chances and people. On a piece of paper, he writes, _25 and it’s all planned_ ; two days later, on the Fourth of July, he wears a Gosha Rubchinskiy t-shirt that says more than words could. He’s the whipped tiger, the scarred elephant, and the toothless lion.)

*

Even _before_ April, the only thing Harry associated with Modena was its balsamic vinegar, as offered in fancy Italian restaurants in Mayfair, among boutiques and race cars. Dipping bread in balsamic vinegar while actually _in_ Modena tastes different, of course, although he strongly suspects that Da Panini, just a stone’s throw away from the Osteria Francescana, might still be a tad more expensive than the average generi alimentari, which, according to Massimo and Alessandro, were the traditional neighbourhood food shops then wiped out by supermarkets and malls, when they came to revolutionize the local economy of Italian towns. 

Italian summers, he’s learnt, are hot and sticky pretty much everywhere, North to South. The air outside the food shop is thick enough that walking feels a bit like swimming, a bit like dying; he’s spent the last day and a half trying to subtly wipe the sweat off his forehead and keeping his arms down along with his head, _just in case_ , as he got lost in the city’s small alleys and drowned in the buzz of its tourists. Now, he’s seen its Duomo, visited its museum, he’s wandered the home of Luciano Pavarotti, he’s ticked all the touristy things he could. 

He licks the sharp taste of vinegar off his lips and glances down at his phone, display still pitch black. About ten minutes ago, he texted Louis a picture of the bottle of oil one of the shop’s employees, Gabriella, served him with a wide, polite smile. It read _extra-virgin olive oil_ , and Harry captioned the picture, _That’s the only extra virgin thing at this table._

(He’s a missed comedian.) 

Then he sent more pictures of the shop, including the small signs scattered everywhere, from the walls to the counter, reading out, _Fate l’amore Non fate la dieta,_ which he wholeheartedly agrees with, proud to say that he speaks enough Italian to know that it means _Make love, not diets._

“Era buonissimo,” he says. He’s a polyglot. A God. “Grazie, Beppe.”

Beppe Palmieri himself, store manager of the Francescana, claps him on the back and informs him, a genuine, pleased smile that’s all teeth: “You have to try our Svuotafrigo now.”

Harry has no idea what a _Swutafreegon_ could be, but it’s probably safe to assume it’s edible. 

“Grazie, ma sono pieno,” Harry says, touching is tummy just in case his pronunciation was off. He may be a language God, but he can stay humble. “Davvero.”

“Nonsense,” Palmieri says, “In Italia si mangia. In Italy,” he translates with emphasis, “you eat, Mr Styles.”

Apparently, in Italy, he doesn’t have a choice, either. “Va bene,” he concedes, just as his phone vibrates and the display flashes bright to show a reply from Louis. His hand flies to grab his phone, faster than the speed of light. _Harold, you make this joke every time,_ the text says.

Harry’s free hand moves up, almost of its own accord, to absentmindedly touch the loose blue bandana around his neck, just before he shoots back, _Yet you laugh every single time_. 

Three dots appear immediately. _I do not._

 _You liar,_ he types. _Now they’re feeding me something called Swutafreegon._

_Are you sure that’s how it’s spelt? That look German._ Then, after a second: _*looks._

Harry scoffs. _I am sure. They’re also giving me a looooooot of wine. Call you later tonight? I’ll be in my hotel room, alone. Probably very tipsy and very horny,_ he adds after a second. 

_Did I just get downgraded from significant other to booty call?_

_You contain multitudes,_ Harry writes, tongue-in-cheek. _I miss you, is all. I miss you sober. I miss you tipsy._

 _Miss you too, Haz,_ Louis writes back immediately, of course he does. _Are you wearing your bandana?_

Harry smirks, fingers playing with the soft fabric once again. _You know I am._

This time, it takes Louis longer to write back. Harry takes another long sip of red wine and swirls the glass, just a small, imperceptible movement, wondering if it’s staining his lips red. He feels hot, squirmy. When Louis finally answers, though, the text almost has him dropping the wine on the floor. 

_How does it feel?_ Louis is asking him. Harry can almost hear his voice, silky smooth, whispering in his ear, the way he’s heard it in the private, secluded booths in exclusive clubs, dipped in champagne, and in their bedroom as he bit into a pillow, and in the dressing rooms before concerts, when the only thing he could bite into was his own bicep. He can almost feel him, even, pressing against his back, breath hot on his neck, feel the way he would grab his hips or twist the bandana, the collar, the fabric, and tug on it, a sharp, welcomed, hot pressure against his windpipe. _Walking around, having me on you in front of all these people? Did you kneel in Modena’s Duomo and think of me instead?_

Harry’s all too aware of the stirring in his pants, of his quickening, shallow breath, of the fact that he is in public, surrounded by oblivious employees, and he wishes that didn’t do as much for him as it actually does. _Stop, I can’t get hard in front of Osteria Francescana’s store manager._

_Of course you can’t. He’s going to think the food was *that* good._

Harry makes, quite possibly, one of the ugliest noises of his life, a loud cackle that has his own hand flying to cover his mouth and Gabriella shooting him a puzzled glance. 

_I hate you._

_Fine, let’s talk about something else. Can you buy another book for Fizzy?_ Louis types again. _It’s called Il Fu Mattia Pascal, from the same author as Uno, Nessuno, Centomila._

 _Will do,_ Harry types, just as Beppe reappears with what Harry suspects is Swutafreegon—as it turns out, it’s a panini bigger than his face. _Gotta go, more food. Love you x,_ he sends, and pockets his phone. 

A few hours later, once the sun has set over Modena, over its alleys and local restaurants and on its people and on him, Harry is lying face up on the king-sized bed of his fancy hotel room, dressed in deep reds and baroque golds, soft silk cushions now scattered on the floor and velvets curtains and venetian windows completely shut. The only source of light comes from the lamp on the bedside table. There’s a crack in the ceiling that he’s been staring at for the past five minutes, since he flopped back onto the bed with his hair still wet and a loose towel around his hips. His eyes are still glued to it when the phone rings, Louis’s name on the screen, and he picks up, leaving it on speaker right next to his head. 

He fervently hopes he’ll need his hands free within the next half an hour. 

“Hi, honey,” he says, blinking up. That crack really goes well with the whole decadent rich Casanova vibes of the hotel. “Did you know that the Romans used to hang statuettes of penises at the entrance of their houses?”

There’s quite a long pause at the other end of the line. “The Romans used to _what_ now?” Louis asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Apparently dicks were symbols of prosperity or somethin’. So they hung them in their hallways for good luck.”

After another moment, Louis says, “Harold, no.”

Harry pouts. “I haven’t even _said_ anything yet.”

“Firstly—I think Alessandro is having you on,” Louis says. “Secondly, we have no shortages of dildoes. What difference does it make whether they’re in a drawer or hanging from the ceiling? I think we’re covered.”

Hanging them from the ceiling sounds more fun, if he’s being honest. But they can explore that in person. He’s sure Louis will see reason. “He isn’t and it wouldn’t be a _dildo_ ,” Harry stresses, “it would be a, like, classy white marble statuette, would go really well with the rest of the house.”

“A classy dick,” Louis deadpans. “What would it do, say _pardon_?”

“I said classy, not posh,” Harry grins. When Louis doesn’t say anything, he goes on, “Hey, are you still there?”

“Sorry, I was busy visualising Anne coming through the front door and getting hit in the face with a fake cock,” Louis says. “Fine, we can talk about it, and you deal with the aftermath when one of our relatives is scarred for life.”

Harry fist bumps the air. “How are you? How’s the X Factor going?”

“Fewer bathroom rendez-vous than there were in 2010,” Louis says, as Harry think, quite viciously: _Better be none at all_ , “but I’m pretty sure I’m going to win, so there’s that. Balances out. How are you?”

He hums. “Stuffed full, tired, sunburnt, you name it. Had fantastic tortellini, though.”

“Mmm? Bet they were amazing. I’m so envious. You’ll have to cook them for me at some point.”

“Of course I will,” Harry hums. “But your arse still tastes better.”

Louis’s sudden, loud cackle has him grinning wildly. “What a charmer,” he says, entertained. His voice is raspy and warm in his ear, soothing like honey. Harry can’t hear anything or anyone in the background, so he assumes Louis’s at home, alone, probably snuggled in old, comfortable sportswear. Or perhaps—perhaps half-naked, just like him, bare-chested and inviting, sprawled on one of their sofas. “Flattery will get you anywhere.”

That’s the idea. “Hey,” Harry says, “I’m serious. _Bel-lis-si-mo_.”

“I think that means beautiful, not good or, y’know, tasty.”

Smooth as ever, Harry says, “I think that means you.” His right hand is already travelling south, fingers grazing against the tight skin of his stomach, the soft hair of his happy trail, and stops to play with the wet hem of the towel. “Are you at home? I’m in the hotel room, naked and horny. Just throwing that out there.”

“Oh, are you now?” Louis hums. Harry can hear the smile in his voice and something else along with it, not quite mocking but… sardonic, perhaps. “I _am_ home, but I’m going out with Lottie tonight and I need to meet her in half an hour or so. Sorry, babes.”

Harry’s mouth falls open as he sits up and turns the speaker mode off to talk directly into the phone. “I told you _hours_ ago that I would be tipsy and horny in my hotel room.”

“Aww,” Louis cooes, and Louis sounds afar now, probably on speaker, too. Harry hears a wardrobe door click closed and some shuffling around. “Sorry, baby.”

Harry throws his free hands in the air and kicks the duvet off the bed, annoyed. “Don’t you dare call me baby,” he mumbles. He gestures at his crotch and asks to no one in particular: “What am I even supposed to _do_ about this now?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Louis says. “You could always write another song about a sad wank in a hotel room.”

Harry’s loud, absolutely indignant gasp is muffled by the initial notes of an airy, pleased laugh, just moments before the call is shut off and he is left to his himself and his lonely, wandering hands. The crack in the ceiling seems to mock him, now, even more so when the screen flashes bright and a message from Louis pops up, simply reading, _You can touch yourself, but don’t come ! Love you, good night x._

Harry groans, frustrated, as the text goes straight to his cock. Of course, though, he listens. He always does.

(Being away, overall, isn’t always easy. At times, Harry misses Louis like he’d miss a piece of himself, like a phantom limb; he misses him knowing the space that should be his, the void he’s supposed to fill. He thinks, _Two weeks and I’ll be home.)_

_*_

It was Louis’s idea to come to the club. He’s been horny for several hours, well before the first beer and then the first shot of tequila at this club, before Harry whispered his name and then called him _Sir_ and _Daddy_ and _Master_ in his ear. He’s been horny since Harry showed him the pictures for the vinyl version of _Fine Line,_ bashful smile betrayed by the malicious glint in his eyes, and there he was, completely naked, legs crossed over the edge of an inflatable, empty heart, and a hand to cover his cock and the soft hair of his pubes. Louis had felt a stirring in his guts, not quite like fire, not quite like a spark, but like hunger, like a starved beast awakening. There were other people around then, managers and assistants--when Louis grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair as he sat on his lap and whispered into his ear, _We’re going out later--_ and there are people _now_ , but these strangers aren’t watching, and this isn’t the type of club where people are allowed phones on them, anyway.

Both his and Harry’s tops are sticking to their sweaty backs. Harry’s t-shirt is white, following the lines of his muscles, and Louis wants to touch, to grip and bite and scratch. He wants to rip the fabric off and mark him his. They could be dancing together, and they will, they _have_ , but this isn’t about dancing as much as it is about tasting. It isn’t about watching, as much as it is devouring. Harry’s been putting on a show for the past fifteen minutes, hips swaying, humping the air, promising and familiar.

(Sometimes, when he’s just as drunk as he is now, Louis thinks that Harry looks like art—like he’d belong to a museum, like he would have belonged to a Renaissance artist's skills and hands, body for a second and marble for eternity.)

Five minutes ago, he asked the DJ to play a song, and it’s about to start any second now. So he comes closer, taps Harry on the shoulder. He hesitates, stops mid-movement, glances back with a look over his shoulder. Louis just nods towards the small corridor leading to the restrooms—to follow him, right before he turns his back and goes. He knows they’ll be able to hear the song from the stall. 

He also knows Harry’ll follow, because he’s his good boy, and he’s his good girl, and he always will.

The stall is small, suffocating, barely spacious enough to allow two people in, but it’ll do. Harry smells like expensive Gucci and sweat, curls damp, sticking out in all directions. His hands are twitchy, fingernails biting into his palm, his breath heavy, erratic. Louis wonder if it’s the dancing, he wonders if it’s the air, he wonders if it’s him.

Less than two feet between them, Harry says, “Lou, I…” and lingers, uncertain. His eyes scan his face for a second before whatever was on the tip of his tongue dissipates, evaporates into thin air, and he drops down to his knees with new, bold determination. 

Undoing Louis’s belt is quirk, practiced work, fingers expertly working his zipper down, and then his mouth–his tight, warm mouth–is around the head of his cock, and then down, down, down. He looks up, he actually _does_ , looks straight into his eyes, rosy lips obscenely stretched around his cock, because and it’s not, it’s never been, and it will never be, as much about watching as it is about tasting. He clasps his hands behind his back, muscles clenching, shoulder blades popping, just as Louis runs a hand through his hair and pulls, dragging him down his dick until Harry’s nose is against his pubic hair and he’s breathing harshly. Louis’s free hand comes to rest on Harry’s nape as his cock hits the back of his throat, and Harry’s still trying to look at him, wrists crossed in delicious, perfect submission. 

(Some days, Harry wants it sweet, and so does he. He’ll want a bed, and sweet words of praise whispered into his skin and feather-light kisses and hours of foreplay. Others, he’ll want pain, he’ll want to taste the sting of a whip or the blazing hot burn of a paddle, hit, after hit, after hit, iwhen he’ll arch his broad back and push his ass against it. Or he’ll want to be called his good girl, or he’ll want to be called his good boy, or he’ll want to not be called at all and be allowed to crumble, be cut into pieces, and then made anew.)

When the song starts, Louis sees the change in him, the _awareness_ , hears the sharp intake of breath the brief moment his lips are off his cock, and the look in his eyes. He’s listening. When Louis tugs on his hair, meaning _up,_ Harry follows, lets him push him against the wall. He shudders against its cold tiles, laboured breath and puffy lips, beautiful and wanton. Louis thinks, again, that he looks like art. That he could swallow him whole. And that, by God, he will.

Like a dance, a choreography, Louis mirrors him and kneels. He looks up from under his eyelashes, fingers moving to undo Harry’s belt, unbearably slow. It’s like Harry’s stopped breathing at all and just–just looks at him, like he’s a vision, like he’s a miracle, like he’s everything, everything, _everything_. Like he’s adoring him. “Comes in bells, your servant, don’t forsake him,” Louis mouths, singing along to the song. “Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart,” and unbuckles his belt. 

That’s when Harry starts shivering, shudders running through his body like lightning bolts. Louis wonders if it’s the anticipation of what’s to come or, more likely, if it’s that nickname that did it, _Mistress,_ if _this_ is what is driving Harry mad. He grips his hips, steadying him, and perhaps even himself, and he’s still silent, he’s good, he’s so _good_ , hands flat against the wall. “Ermine furs adorn the imperious,” Louis sings, “Severin, Severin awaits you there,” and pulls down his trousers with a firm tug, belt clinking against the floor. He’s not wearing underwear and his cock is heavy, red, shiny at the tip.

The DJ will play the song three times.

For the next seconds, he does nothing but stare at it, its girth and colour; he inhales the musky smell that, for years now, has meant _HarryHarryHarry._ He doesn’t touch, although his mouth is already watering. Then, he bends down, ever so slowly, mouth to Harry’s boot-clad feet, and, lips moving against the shoe, sing-songs, “Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather,” like a whisper, like a prayer, like a secret, and kisses the tip of Harry’s boot, “Shiny leather in the dark,” and kisses the other one.

Harry’s shuddering, hands clenching. He stutters, “Louis, I…” 

“Severin, Severin, speak so slightly,” Louis cuts him off. “Severin, down on your bended knee.”

Harry’s hard cock is salty against his tongue as he licks a long stripe up his shaft and then takes his cockhead into his mouth, lips tight. He breathes through his nose, one hand working Harry’s cock, moving in synch with his mouth, the other gripping his left thigh, fingernails biting into the skin, enough to leave bruises, enough to hurt a bit, the way Harry, his good, perfect boy, likes. The picture of him naked is burnt into his memory, into his eyelids–Harry, naked, legs crossed, modest hand between them, like a god, like a goddess, like Venus, like a painting, like art. 

Harry’s twitching, struggling not to push into his mouth and drive himself deeper into the heat of his mouth, but he doesn’t touch. When Louis next comes up for air, hand still pumping his shaft, he presses his wet, precome-stained lips against Harry’s right thigh. “Taste the whip,” he sings along, whispering, “now bleed for me,” he says, and bites, _hard_ , and Harry cries out and slaps a hand against the wall. 

Louis licks around Harry’s cockhead, presses his thumb against the slit. He spits on it and drag his fist up and down a couple of times before he sinks down a bit, and up, and down again, and again, and again, lips tight, breathing through his nose. Harry’s big and his jaw will hurt, eventually, and he relishes that. He mouths wetly at the sides, gets more spit going, then, when the slide is easier, slackens his jaw and goes down, down, down, swallows Harry’s cock down his throat. It’ll be used and sore tomorrow, his voice scratchy, and he relishes that, too. 

Next time he comes up for hair, he sucks on two of his fingers and then spits on them for good measure. Harry doesn’t seem to notice—his eyes have fluttered closed, palms back to being obediently flat against the tiles—so he jolts violently when Louis runs the pads of his fingers against his taint and then pushes into his hole to the second knuckles.

Even though he’s still loose from earlier today, when they sixty-nine’d on the couch and he’d had him wear a plug afterwards, it still must sting a bit, must be just on the side of uncomfortable and too much, the way Harry likes. He peers down on him, eyes and hair wild, and then he’s rambling, a continuous, prayer-like litany, _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, please Louis please sir, please please_ that could belong to dreams, perhaps to heaven, and yet belongs to _him_.

“Come now, baby,” Louis says. “Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart,” he sings, free hand pumping him, twisting at the head, faster, and faster and faster--until Harry moans and jolts, hips stuttering, just as Louis sticks his tongue out and Harry spills into his open mouth.

When he raises to his feet, and they look into each other’s eyes, Harry’s teary-eyed, lips bitten red. “Thank you, Daddy,” he breathes. “I want you in my mouth. Daddy, I…”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Louis grabs Harry’s chin tightly between his thumb and index fingers, kisses him and pushes his own load into his slack mouth. Harry moans, sucks on his tongue like he’s tasting sugar and honey, and Louis thinks, _Mine, mine, mine._ His hands come to rest on Louis’ hips, finally, holding tightly, and the knowledge that Harry could push him around and rough him up, but that he won’t - because he’s given up all his control to him, all of himself along with it - sends a thrill down his spine. Suddenly he’s painfully aware of his hard cock in his jeans.

“I want you to wet your fingers,” he instructs, and thinks: _I want to see you gag on them the way you’d gag on me._ “Then I want you to go down on your knees, and fuck yourself, and I want you to feel the pretty, expensive rings I bought you against your hole, and I want your mouth on me as you do. Can you do that, baby?” he asks. “Can you be a good girl for me?”

Harry nods frantically, _I can, I can. I can,_ and there’s something in the way he looks at him, like he’s everything, like he’s witnessing God, like he’s the creation and the Big Bang, that has Louis’ chest ache, his heart clench. He cradles Harry’s face in his hands, traces the strong line of his jaw with the pads of his damp thumbs: so beautiful, so strong, he thinks, sharp jaw and pink lips, could have had everything and everyone and chose him instead. 

Time stretches for a long moment. How does one survive being adored like this, he wonders, like a saint, like Joan and Lucy and Peter? How does--how can anyone be loved like this and still be human, still hurt, still cause pain, how does one not fall to pieces? The pressure of it all weighs on his shoulders, makes his stomach turn and his blood boil, the distinct, acute awareness that Harry adores him the same way believers kneel and bow, with a totality and a vulnerability made for perfection. He loves him the same, but he’s always loved the way he’s lived, boldy and recklessly, and sometimes he can’t bear to also be at the receiving end of it. 

There’s bravery, he thinks, in loving and adoring the way they do, in a way that was destined to gods, and yet blossomed for the human and the flawed. _I love you so much_ , Louis thinks again, _sometimes I think I’ll fall to pieces with the weight of it._ Perhaps there’s stupidity, too, or both. And, yet, it doesn’t really matter, because when he says, “I love you,” and Harry mouths it back, it feels monumental, bigger than any other secret about divinity uttered and revealed in beaches and caves. This secret is human, and flawed, and theirs, and real. 

When he kisses him again, it’s tender and raw, like an open wound. He licks the inside of his mouth, tasting come and Harry and him, too, savouring all the years they’ve spent together; the mornings he’s tasted the bitter aftertaste of black coffee and the nights he’s sucked champagne off his tongue and the small, chaste kisses he’s left on his come-stained lips. He devours it all, like holy bread and blessed wine, the body Harry offers to him. 

Every time Harry kneels is a revelation and, right now, it’s no different. It’s suspended in time, infinite. Harry takes him into his mouth, mouth slack, swallowing him down his throat from the get go. Louis can see the way Harry’s right arm is awkwardly stretched back to finger himself open, plunging his fingers inside with purpose. Louis’s fingers carefully run through Harry’s hair, tug without real force behind it, then come to rest on the back of his head. Harry’s hips stutter and his muffled moan sends delicious vibrations through Louis’s cock. He grunts, hips now driving forward, properly fucking his mouth. 

As soon as Louis feels the familiar, sweet tugging in his guts, he grabs better hold of Harry’s hair and forcefully pulls him off, a trail of saliva still connecting his lips to him. He’s a revelation. He’s still whining when he orders, “Up, baby,” and Harry scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t need to say anything else -- Harry swings around, cheek pressed against the wall, back obscenely arched, and spreads his arsecheeks. 

Louis takes a travel-sized packet of lube and rips it open with his teeth, spreading it over his cock and Harry’s crack. When he drives his fingers in, twists them around and crooks them against Harry’s prostate, Harry grunts, animal-like, bucks against him. He croaks out, “Ready, Ready, Louis…”, shifting his hips so Louis’ curved fingers can rub more decisively against his spot. He’s riding his fingers like he was born for it. Harry’s own fingers, Louis notices, still pulling his arsecheeks apart, are shiny and saliva-slick. So are his rings.

He takes his fingers out and spanks him, a hard, loud slap to redden his milky skin, and then again, and once more, and a final time, to mark him his. But this was never about pain as much as it was about devouring, so Louis squirts the remnants of lube against on his cock and rubs the head against Harry’s crack and taint, and the latter barely has the time to mumble another quiet plea, before Louis thrusts in with one single glide.

The first push is always a wonder, the world tilting sideways, hot, tight pressure against his cock. Harry’s ass grips him like a vice, reels him in, as Harry holds himself against the wall and pushes back to fuck himself on him. They move in synch, meeting halfway. Louis grabs Harry’s hips viciously, drags his fingernails down, leaving blazing hot scratches in his wake, and snaps his hips forward, the filthy sounds of their skin slapping together echoing in the toilet stall. 

He won’t last long, but that’s not the point. When Louis changes the angle and drives his cock against Harry’s spot with maddening precision, Harry throws his head back, eyes shut, roughly fisting himself to coax another orgasm out of him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , Harry’s pleading, words like broken sobs, _please, Master, Louis, Sir, Daddy, please, God._ He is white hot pleasure and a vision and heaven itself. When he comes and spills on the wall in ribbons, his arse clenches around him, friction bordering on painful now; Louis thrusts in once, twice, three times more, before he comes inside of him. He glances down, where his cock his buried deep in Harry’s arse, and thinks, sex-drunk, that he always looks looks best stuffed full. 

After he comes, Louis pulls out, drops to his knees, and flattens his tongue against Harry’s hole. Harry’s hands scrambles for purchase, perhaps not knowing whether to pull him in or push him away, hypersensitive, a live wire. He’s calling out, chanting his name. After he comes, he sucks his own come out of Harry’s arse, digs his fingers into his thighs and slaps him, has him swirl around and lean against the wall he just came on. After he comes, he kisses Harry again, all teeth and tongue, feeds him his come, and has him devour them both, like hellfire, like bread, like wine. 

*

Both of their empty glasses of water are abandoned on the kitchen table. They’ve been snuggling on the sofa all afternoon, streaming episode after episode of Making a Murderer, way more Netflix than actual chill (if any at all, one makeout session notwithstanding). Louis has his arm wrapped around Harry’s shoulders and his feet up on the glass small table they bought last year, Harry’s head nestled in the small of his neck, breath tickling him in huffs. Outside, the sun has gone down over London, and he’s not quite sure what time it is now. Part of him doesn’t care to know.

Harry has been quiet all day. It’s not the first time. Sometimes, he goes places Louis doesn’t know or understand completely. Harry’s foreign places are most often than not silent and sharp, as deadly as ice and freezing water. Once in a while, they’ll be thunderous, coming out in bolts and lightning strikes. He may be quiet for hours or give him short, cold comebacks, single shots like poisoned arrows to the heart. He may look at his reflection in the mirror, as he leans against their vanity table, and just _stare_ at himself, and leave Louis to wonder what he sees. He remembers Fizzy telling him about that book, about being one, no one, and a hundred thousand different people all at once, and he’ll wonder, _Do we see the same? Do I see you as you are, or do I see you as I am?_

(Not that it’d make any difference; he’d probably love all the hundred thousand people Harry could be, the way he loved him at 16, in his awkwardness and teenage eagerness, and 18, at the dawn of adulthood, when he became _Harry Styles_ , and at 21, with his wild long hair and the rockstar looks, when he first told him, _I’m not sure of who I am,_ and at 23, the year the world tilted on its axis, when Louis, himself, wasn’t sure who _he_ was in the first place; he’s loved him in the wildest outfits and in starking nudity and over nasty fights and after slammed doors, and he loves him now, at 25, when he’s become all he’s ever known.)

When Harry disappears, Louis can only try and follow him blindly, like a trapezist walking a fine line over the void, and trust him and him alone. He can only guess the same goes for Harry.

Louis doesn’t disappear. His places come to him, monster-ridden, in prides. Isolated, uncharted islands or empty deserts, long expanses of dry, dead ground. He’ll find himself stuck in obstile, dark forests, full of beasts snarling and howling in the dark. His therapist says that he should talk, so he tries, desperately, but some of these cries are screeching, ear-piercingly loud, and they shout things he can’t make out or that he can’t repeat. From time to time, these cries will have familiar voices he tries not to hear.

Here’s the issue, isn’t it? There’s nowhere to hide, there’s nowhere to look into: more often than not, they are their own monsters under the bed. When they aren’t, they’ll know them by name—at least the ones they have tucked carefully between the sheets, over and over again, like well-behaved children. 

During days like this, there’ll be late mornings, when hot cocoas will be steaming in the kitchen and the TV will be turned off all day, and, although Haz will be wearing a dressing gown and pretty much nothing else, and he’ll be beautiful, and his, they’ll do nothing but laze about, and it’ll be for the both of them. There’ll be quiet evenings in which the living room will smell like cinnamon and orange, or vanilla and rose, and candles will paint the room and their features in flickering light, and Harry’s lips will be a different, new shade of pink, and Louis will kiss them, and kiss them, and kiss them, and it’ll also be for the both of them. 

Louis turns his head, buries his nose in Harry’s hair and inhales deeply, scent familiar and grounding. He smells like home, even more so as the both of them are in the same clothes they slept in last night. “Hey,” he whispers. “Have you had enough of true crime for today?”

Harry makes a non-committal noise. “Whatever you say, I don’t mind,” he mutters. “I just don’t really wanna go out, you know.”

Louis knows that he means it, that sometimes he simply likes to be steered and doesn’t particularly care where to, as long as Louis’s leading. “Too late to go out anyway, innit? I can cook us dinner. I could make us pancakes, come to think of it. We’ll be proper rebels, breakfast food in the evening and all.”

Harry shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “Not hungry yet. Sorry,” he adds after a second. “I can make dinner, if you’d like, though. I could make fajitas.”

“Nonsense,” Louis says, kissing his temple. “Come with me.” 

Five minutes later, they’re sitting at the kitchen table. Louis’s perched on a chair, eyebrows pinched, gaze firm and focused. A small nail polish bottle is on the table, uncapped. Louis dips the small brush into the liquid and runs it over each of Harry’s nails, with systematic, practiced precision. Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, either. This, all of this, is for the both of them. It’s not healing anything, least something that hasn’t got a name, but it’s soothing, a salve of sorts, and it’ll be enough for now as it’s been enough before. 

When he’s done, he gently blows on Harry’s nails, then kisses each of the pads of his fingers and gazes up at him. He’s here, he realises. He’s here with me. “We can talk about this tomorrow,” he says, cautiously.

Harry nods. “I might go boxing for a couple of hours before that, too, to unwind, if that’s alright with you. You can come with, if you’d like.”

“Of course,” Louis replies easily. “You know I wouldn’t miss an occasion to knock you out.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “You wish,” he retorts. (It still feels empty. Louis guesses each scar heals at a different pace, and all he can do is wait for it to heal and avoid any further scratches.) He hesitates, voice dropping. “I am sorry,” he adds quietly. “I’m sorry I’m not being me today. I got lost inside my head a bit.”

“Shh,” Louis says. “It’s okay. I like doing your nails. I like these moments with you. And this is also you, by the way. You’re not just your good days. That’s fine.”

Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything for long minutes. He absentmindedly scratches his mermaid tattoo. Then, still looking away, just a random, indefinite spot on the floor, he whispers, “I like all moments with you, even the nasty ones.” He inhales deeply and adds, voice thin like paper, light as a feather. “I know your bad taste. I know your bitterness and your hurt. I know everything. I love you still, and I can swallow that down.” He turns around to look at him, reaches out, fixes his soft fringe. “Thank you for swallowing mine.”

Louis’s throat feels tight, his heart like a hammer in his chest. _You know my rot_ , he thinks, _and I know yours. I love you still._ The world, both outside and inside their house, is dark and quiet and stilled; no monsters snarl or growl. 

*

(Recording sessions become easier, more fruitful. Louis doesn’t find his voice, but, rather patches and pieces it together, the way, he’s learnt, most people do. He builds it, the way one would build a wall, piece after piece. Like he would a wall, he tears down the parts he decides he doesn’t like after all. 

Not long later that evening, he has the green light to release his album in 2019. There’s X Factor to go through before that, but it doesn’t matter, not really. He guesses that not all battles last the same. One day, soon enough, he’ll savour victory the way he’s swallowed loss. 

One evening, after a long phone call with Phoebe, he realises that perhaps he is not in pieces. Perhaps he’s all those pieces together, all the time, and just picks one to show the world, and what he has to do is learn to live with multitudes. 

Form his account, he tweets, _Time to start fucking winning !_ and then pockets his phone.)

*

Jamaica is long golden days and ice-cold cocktails and luxury resorts made of private apartments with their own expanse of white, sandy beach. Calm waves crash against the shore, in days made of syrupy sweet desserts eaten under the shade and in long, noisy nights of drunken, uncoordinated dancing under the moonlight. 

They have their own apartment, open space kitchen and living room and two bedrooms with their en-suites, one of which they only use to leave their suitcases and forget about them. Their bedroom directly overlooks the beach, so they usually only need to take a few lazy steps to come home for a nap under the blessed air con, when the Jamaican heat becomes too much for either, or both, of them. 

Their resorts are becoming more and more private with each passing year, one of the upsides being that they can now blast their music without bothering the neighbours. Truth to be told, they can also be as loud as they like, in other ways, without that very same issue. Thank the fucking Lord.

As soon as Harry comes back from the beach, still wet, skin reddened, Louis slaps the ping pong paddle against the palm of his hand. He’s been home for half an hour and he’s getting antsy. “Are you game?”

The other drops his beach bag on the floor, raising an eyebrow. “I kind of wanted to take a shower first?”

“Pity,” Louis muses. He’s got an itch to scratch, and it needs scratching now. “I thought we could have a table tennis game. Heard you’re getting rusty.”

“‘am not,” Harry frowns. “I’ve always got a table backstage, you know that. What are you _on_ about?”

“I won every single time we played this week,” says Louis. He swirls the paddle in his hand and slaps it against his flat palm again, which is when Harry’s eyes become glued to it. At last. “Which is a pity, because you’re a sore loser, and every single day, I left the beach early to come here and finger myself open, thinking I’d have you fuck me if you managed to beat me. The lube is on the floor under the table, if you want to check.”

Harry does. He’s playing with the hem of his shorts as retorts, “I _have_ fucked you this week. Or were you not there?”

Louis thinks, _Cheeky_. “Not on the ping pong table,” he points out. “What did you think I was eating all those salads for?” He clears his voice. “Are you game, then?”

“I’m game,” Harry says. He adjusts his cock in his yellow shorts. “Just don’t let me win.”

Harry’s a competitive bastard, perhaps even more than him. It could be a table game, Cluedo, Monopoly or Scrabble, he’ll play to fucking win and he’ll rub it in your face when he finally does. Louis can only imagine that the tiredness of the last few months has caught up with him, a dangerous combination with their laziness when they’re on holiday, hence why he hasn't been as driven as he normally is.

With a purpose, though, with an end in his mind, Harry manages to go from _competitive bastard_ to _vicious little shit,_ and not long later, sweat is pooling on Louis’s temples and in the hollow of his throat, with Harry’s hair sticking to his temples. Each swing is precise, harder than it’s ever been over the week, and Louis is panting and genuinely struggling to keep up.

Way before midday, Louis is being pushed up the ping pong table with each, powerful thrust, arse almost off the table. His hands are at each side, gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles are white and straining, not because he needs it, per se, Harry keeping him his legs in place against his chest, but as a way to anchor himself.

Harry’s panting above him, letting out a stream of steady moans in time with his thrusts. The both of them are sweaty, and it would border on disgusting if it didn’t feel so damn good, the musky smell of Harry’s skin and his hips slapping against his arsecheeks with wet, loud noises. Before this, Harry ate him out for ages, until Louis was riding his pretty, blotchy red face.

It’s hot, though, it’s so fucking hot, it’s unbearable. Harry must be noticing the same thing, because he pants, “I think the air con is broken.”

“It’s not, I— _fuck—_ turned it off earlier,” Louis manages to say. “Wanted to tire you out.”

Harry’s movements slow down and finally still, until they’re more more of a slow grind than anything else, buried deep inside of him, cock rubbing against his prostate. The friction, along with the temperature, is too much and not enough, unbearable. He needs Harry to move, to get him to climax. But what Harry does instead is lean back to look at him with a taken aback look in his eyes and go, “You dick, did you _not_ want me to fuck you?”

“You were going to win anyway, I was just making it harder for you,” Louis says breathlessly, with a slap on Harry’s bare ass, “now put some effort and _fuck me_ like you mean it.”

Harry doesn’t, resisting the order, although his nostril flare at the slap. “I should just leave you like this and go have a wank in the bathroom.”

Fuck this. Louis reaches out to grab Harry’s throat, Harry groaning, eyes fluttering shut, breath itching. He doesn’t put much pressure, just enough for it to be a promise, yet Harry reacts beautifully. His neck is long, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, veins popping. Louis feels his cock twitch inside of him. Now that he’s distracted, Louis’s other hand the wanders on the flat surface of the table, until his fingers graze the handle of one of the paddles. 

When he grabs hold of it and swings it almost blindly against Harry’s ass, the effect is immediate. Harry’s hands are suddenly tighter on his thighs and he grunts and curses, and when Louis orders again, _Fuck me,_ he pulls out almost completely and thrusts back in roughly, hard enough to push him up the table.

Louis’s hand leaves Harry’s throat and his head falls forward, almost like a puppet that got his strings cut, to hide in and moan wetly against the hollow of Louis’s neck. When he hits him once, twice, three, four times more in sequence, Harry pistons his hips with new, renewed purpose, moaning _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_ against his skin. 

Louis grunts, one particular well-aimed thrust having his eyes roll back in the inside his head. Suddenly, he’s seeing white. He licks a long stripe up Harry’s torso, tasting sweat and salty water, and bites down on his shoulder as he comes, muffling his own scream.

*

Harry suddenly remembers that morning. When he does, they’re home, wine-tipsy, on the only day off they have, without any chance to sleep it off tomorrow, and Harry couldn’t care less. It’s one of their good days, their bellies full and their blood thrumming. They’ve still got desserts to go, but two minutes ago Louis suddenly looked at him and ordered, _I want to dance. Let’s dance,_ and Harry’s always a sucker for following orders.

He thinks of Jamaica because they used to dance in the same way. Because this how they would dance there, in the privacy of their flat, carefree and as happy as they’ve ever been. If Louis could just pick a song, that is.

“Alexa,” Louis is shouting, “play Song of the day!”

Alexa’s edge flickers blue. “This is _Sad song for rainy days,_ ” it says.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis mutters, Harry absolutely howling, hands on his belly. It’s probably not this funny. “Alexa, play _Bella Ciao_!”

“This is Bella Ciao, remix by Steve Aoki & Marnik,” Alexa says easily. 

Harry’s still laughing as Louis drags him away from the table and leads him towards the middle of the kitchen, dirty, empty plates abandoned on the table along with one empty bottle of red wine.

Two portions each of (quite watery, despite his best attempt) _cacio e pepe_ sitting in their bellies, Harry takes Louis’ hand and has him twirl around, anything but gracious. But Louis's smiling wide and there’s crinkles around his eyes that weren’t there years ago, when they first met, and when he leans down and kisses him, he tastes like expensive wine and homemade pasta, and Harry is suddenly reminded of something else, as well. 

In Italy, months ago, he was told that food shapes people’s taste, not the other way around. Mouths learn the tenderness of veal filetto just as the eyes see its colour, and the syrupy sweetness of figs, as fingers meet the stickiness of their juice, and memorise the bittersweet combination of caponata, of peppers, aubergine, olives and cappers, as the nose learns its pungent smell, the garlic and vinegar along with the sugar and the tomato sauce.

It dawns to him, with a single, sudden realisation that he’s learnt Louis the same way.

He’s learnt his bitterness, the pieces that had him flinch, that left lingering, bitter aftertaste for hours, days, in the darkest moments, during fights and silences and curt, sharp comebacks; he’s learnt his sweetness, in the sound of his voice in the morning, rough and throaty, in whispers against his skin and mumbling against the pillow, in the songs he wrote and in the rings he bought. His softness, in the way he looks at his siblings and at him, too, in his hands, when they take his, when they run through his hair, when they trace the tattoos on his body. He’s learnt his jealousy and his dark concerns and he’s learnt him, as a whole, the good and the bad and the sweet and the rotten. He’s tasted him and he’s tasted him and he’s loved him and he loves him. 

Back then in Rome, there was a specific tattoo that someone from the camera crew was wearing on their bare arm. In black ink. It read, _Per aspera ad astra._ He remembers asking them what it meant and them saying that it was a Latin idiom _. “_ Asper is the Latin word for _aspro_ , which is _bitter_ , for food,” they explained in English. “Here, it’s a metaphor. It doesn’t mean bitter. It means _Through adversities to the stars._ ”

Now, the sun is setting in London and the last drops of sunlight are casting shadows over their kitchen and over them, dipping the room in blood orange and in golden, and Harry thinks this, all of this, the kitchen and the setting sun and they, too, could be a metaphor. He thinks that Louis, too, is golden.

Now, Louis is looking at him curiously, head tilted to the side, chest heaving. “What is it?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head, fingers grazing against his pearl necklace. _Mine. His._ “Nothing,” he says. “Let’s dance. Alexa, play some dancehall music.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me on tumblr at sedfierisentio.tumblr.com.
> 
> *"Do we see the same? Do I see you as you are, or do I see you as I am?" - This sentence is loosely inspired by something Anais Nin wrote: "We don't see people as they are. We see people as we are."


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